The People Who'll Always Be There
by Phoebonica
Summary: Violet suspects that Lemony knows a lot more about her than he's telling. Probably AU.


**Disclaimer:** These are Daniel Handler's characters and I promised to give them back when I'd finished with them. This story is probably an AU, a phrase which here means "I doubt this situation is canon, but I suspect this is what would happen if it was."

**The People Who'll Always Be There**

Violet ran up the spiral staircase of the clock tower. The stairs were well-built and stable, but she caught herself looking down and catching hold of the rails, as if the whole structure was about to collapse. She shook her head. The feeling was in her mind, not her body. It was the way she'd felt when her parents died and left her and her siblings with Count Olaf, and when they'd been accused of being criminals, and when they _became_ criminals. She'd thought she'd never have that feeling any more, of all the rational things she knew slipping away from beneath her. Thought, somewhat bitterly, that there was nothing in the world that could surprise her any more.

Until last night, when she'd been checking through Duncan's notes, making sure they had everything they needed before they caught the _Prospero_ tomorrow morning – this morning – and found a photograph. One photograph, and a few neat lines of notation. And everything had changed again.

She reached the top of the stairs and practically flung herself against the peeling wooden door, banging on it with the hand that wasn't gripping Duncan's commonplace book. There was the sound of a chair scraping back across floorboards.

"Who's there?" The voice was startled, wary, as if the speaker was slowly backing away.

"Open the door!" Violet yelled, relieved to find that her voice didn't crack or tremble, that she sounded angry rather than panicked or confused. Her hands were almost shaking, but she held them still. He wouldn't see what this had done to her, not if she could help it.

The door opened slowly. Lemony stepped into view gripping the back of a chair, which he'd obviously planned on using to defend himself if whoever was outside tried to attack him. Judging by the way he was looking at Violet, he wasn't totally convinced that she wouldn't.

"I need to talk to you." Her voice was quieter now, more level, but Lemony still took a step back. "May I come in?"

"Okay…" He stepped aside to let her enter, putting the chair down slowly as if he didn't want to make sudden movements. "Violet, what's wrong? Don't you have to be at the harbour?"

"They'll wait for me." She shook her head. "You knew, didn't you?"

He blinked at her. "Knew what?"

"Look at this." She held up the picture. Her hand was steady, which was something of an achievement. "Do you notice anything?"

"It's a picture of B – of your parents. Their wedding. I didn't think any of those had survived." He leaned in closer to examine it. "I'm afraid I don't know what…"

"The trees," Violet explained. "There are leaves on them. This picture was taken in the summer." Her arm was beginning to ache from gripping the book so tightly. She put it down, leaning with both hands on the desk for support. "I was born in the winter," she continued, "and my parents always said they were married a year before I was born."

There was a long silence. Violet realised she was holding her breath. Lemony was still staring at the picture. She couldn't tell whether he'd realised yet what she was saying.

Maybe he _didn't_ know… But he must have known. She'd seen it. Duncan had seen it…

"Duncan worked it out, you see." Violet hadn't realised she was going to speak again until she did. Her voice seemed unfamiliar to her, higher than usual. "The dates were in his original research, one of the things Klaus saved, and he'd made the connection but he didn't want to risk anything on it. He told me it wasn't certain, that there were too many variables, he couldn't prove anything. _We'll never know one way or the other_, that was what he said to me. But I know enough. I know that _this_ is when my parents really got married," – she pointed to the list – "and _this_ is the day _you_ left my mother. Three months before the wedding picture. And nine months before I was born."

She couldn't go on. Her voice was already beginning to falter, and she _wouldn't_ cry in front of him. Wouldn't show him how much he'd hurt her. Wouldn't say _I trusted you. I thought you were a friend. You were evasive, yes, you were secretive, but I thought if there was anyone I could trust in VFD, it would be you. _Wouldn't scream at him_ How long have you known? How long have you known who I am? And why didn't you ever _tell_ me?_

"…just isn't possible."

"What?" She hadn't realised he was speaking. His voice was quiet, too quiet to be heard over the turmoil in her head. "W-what did you say?"

He gave a deep, weary sigh. "I said I know how this looks and I know what you must be thinking, but I'm afraid it just isn't possible."

_No._ "How can you _say_ that?" She tried not to shriek it. The urge to cry was gone, but only because she now wanted to slap him across the face. "How can you – even _you_, how can you just deny it like that? How _can_ you, when it's right in front of you? The evidence…"

"Doesn't tell the whole story." He swallowed nervously as she glared at him. "The dates are accurate, yes, but you couldn't have been… There's no easy way to put this. Your mother and I – at the time I was forced to leave, we were both extremely busy. There wasn't much opportunity to be – together, and the last time we were together in – in _that_ way, w-was…"

"You're saying I can't have been conceived before you left," Violet interrupted, feeling dizzy. She'd _expected_ him to deny it, but she hadn't realised he could be so matter-of-fact about doing it. She thought he'd be panicked, terrified, refuse to speak to her altogether, maybe. She didn't think he'd sound _reasonable_.

He sighed with relief. "Yes, that's what I'm saying."

Violet felt the floor begin to slip away again.

"You're _lying_!"

"No, Violet, I'm not." He took a cautious step towards her and she shrank back, gripping the edge of the desk. "I'm sorry, Violet. I realise it's hard for you to believe me, but…"

"Why else would they have lied?" Violet yelled, grabbing the picture from the desk and holding it in front of her like a shield. "Why would they pretend for fifteen years if there was nothing to hide?"

He shook his head. "Perhaps they wanted to avoid – complications. Perhaps they were trying to make sure the subject of their past would never arise. I don't know, Violet. I can't speak for them or what they knew. All I can tell you is what I know, and Violet, I can not be your…"

Violet gripped the edge of the desk. The room was swaying now, as if a high wind was blowing round the tower. "_Look me in the eyes, then!_" she shouted. "_Look at me, if you're telling the truth!_"

Tears were forming now, despite all her efforts. Lemony took her gently by the shoulders and turned her so their eyes met. Try as she might, she couldn't see any sign of deception in his face. No tricks, no insincerity. His voice was very soft.

"I'm not your father, Violet," he said. "Bertrand Baudelaire was your father."

Violet nodded silently. Then, almost without warning, she burst into tears. The wave of panicked energy that had brought her there drew back completely, and she fell to the dusty wooden floor and sat there sobbing, arms wrapped round her knees as if to hold herself together. Something blurry and white appeared in the corner of her vision, and she realised Lemony was offering her a handkerchief. She took it and tried to thank him, but the words dissolved into a flood of tears again.

"I'm sorry," she heard him say. He knelt down beside her. "I'm sorry, Violet."

She shook her head. "Duncan said I – s-shouldn't jump to conclusions."

"Well, Duncan likes to be cautious. But I'd be very surprised if he hadn't privately come to the same conclusion you did, considering the evidence you had. And I certainly don't think any less of you for believing…"

She cut him off. "I don't… I didn't think you did. I'm not upset because I was _wrong_," she continued, wiping her eyes. "I mean I'm sorry I yelled at you…"

"You don't have to be."

"But that's not why I'm crying." She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging her ribbon. "I'm not upset at all. I'm relieved. I've never been so relieved in my entire life. Just to know that I'm not… that I'm really… there've been too many secrets. Too many hidden things. And – and I already lost my dad once."

"Oh, Violet." Lemony gently placed his hand on top of hers, and they sat together in silence for a while. How long exactly, Violet couldn't say. She only looked up when the clock struck eight times, startling them both.

"I need to go." Violet scrambled to her feet. She tried to give Lemony the handkerchief back, but he shook his head.

"Keep it. I have plenty." He handed her the notebook. "I expect Duncan will need this back."

Violet gave a weak smile. "Oh, yes. He'd never forgive me if I lost it. Th-thank you." _For acting normally_, she thought but wouldn't say. _For understanding_.

Lemony opened the door for her, which almost made her giggle despite everything. He was so incredibly _formal_ sometimes. "Goodbye, Violet. I hope your mission is a successful one. And…"

"Yes?"

He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "Nothing. Just – good luck."

"Thank you." She paused in the doorway. "Good – good luck to you too."

He might have said something as the door closed, but it was too faint to make out. Violet stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, readjusting her hair. She pulled the ribbon out and tucked it into her pocket. She still felt shaken, and exhausted from crying, but her mind was clear enough.

The stairs held still as she made her way back down.

* * *

Lemony stood motionless, staring at the door. He wasn't even crying. It would have been better, maybe, if he could have cried.

_I did the right thing._

Violet's footsteps echoed around him, ever fainter as she descended the spiral staircase. He half expected them to start growing louder again. They didn't.

_She trusts me. Isn't that nice._

And he'd told her the truth. Mostly.

In every way that counted, Bertrand Baudelaire was her father.

And even if there were angles in her face that he thought he'd seen in the mirror, they weren't proof of anything.

_I gave her what she needed. Certainty. Even if it's a false one, I'm the only one who ever has to know._

_Violet needs a family she can rely on._

_I did the right thing. And I did it for her…_

But that wasn't true at all, was it? He could pretend it had been a noble act. He could tell himself he only did it to spare her pain. But he couldn't make himself believe it.

The real reason was her eyes. He knew _exactly_ where those eyes came from. He still saw them in the middle of the night, in dreams of a life that had worked out differently. Dreams of a wife, and a family, and a home. They looked at him from Beatrice's face, full of love and tenderness, and having them abandon him again each morning was as much as he could bear. He couldn't stand to have Violet look at him and _know_.

He couldn't allow himself to love her.

She wasn't the daughter he'd never had. It was worse than that.

She was the daughter he never _could_ have.


End file.
